The more Arthur Merlin saw of Hope Wayne the more delighted he was to think how impossible it was for him, in view of his profound devotion to his art, to think of beautiful women in any other light than that of picturesque subjects. "Really, Mr. Newt," Arthur said to him one evening as they were dining together at Delmonico's--which was then in William Street--"if I were to paint a picture of Diana when she loved Endymion--a picture, by-the-by, which I intend to paint--I should want to ask Miss Wayne to sit to me for the principal figure. It is really remarkable what a subdued splendor there is about her--Diana blushing, you know, as it were--the moon delicately veiled in cloud. It would be superb, I assure you." Lawrence Newt smiled--he often smiled--as he wiped his mouth, and asked, "Who would you ask to sit for Endymion?" "Well, let me see," replied Arthur, cheerfully, and pondering as if to determine who was exactly the man. It was really beautiful to see his exclusive enthusiasm for his art. "Let me see. How would it do to paint an ideal figure for Endymion?" "No, no," said Lawrence Newt, laughing; "art must get its ideal out of the real. I demand a good, solid, flesh-and-blood Endymion." "I can't just think of any body," replied Arthur Merlin, musingly, looking upon the floor, and thinking so intently of Hope, in order to image to himself a proper Endymion, that he quite forgot to think of the candidates for that figure. "How would my young friend Hal Battlebury answer?" asked Lawrence Newt. "Oh, not at all," replied Arthur, promptly; "he's too light, you know." "Well, let me see," continued the other, "what do you think of that young Southerner, Sligo Moultrie, who was at Saratoga? I used to think he had some of the feeling for Hope Wayne that Diana wanted in Endymion, and he has the face for a picture." "Oh, he's not at all the person. He's much too dark, you see," answered Arthur, at once, with remarkable readiness. "There's Alfred Dinks," said Lawrence Newt, smiling. "Pish!" said Arthur, conclusively. "Really, I can not think of any body," returned his companion, with a mock gravity that Arthur probably did not perceive. The young artist was evidently very closely occupied with the composition of his picture. He half-closed his eyes, as if he saw the canvas distinctly, and said, "I should represent her just lighting upon the hill, you see, with a rich, moist flush upon her face, a cold splendor just melting into passion, half floating, as she comes, so softly superior, so queenly scornful of all the world but him. Jove! it would make a splendid picture!"